What will you tell them
 the ones that arrive after me -
of my time
and my presence
on this impermeable clay earth?

     Will you speak softly of me, of my perceived gentle wisdom and all encompassing urgency?
     Or of the demons I'd learnt to converse between, and no longer sit amongst in fear?
     Will my bravery be of that which you admire?
     Or will my passing be a memory of insurmountability
 - of deafening solitude defined by fear?
     Will you recall the moments I'd lain beside you,
stroking your hair or your neck or your back,
     breathing silently until I heard your own breath sleeping?
     Or will you recite stories of darkness and heart and magic that none had ever understood?

Will you build altars where I stood?
Or will you imagine the person you thought I would be but never could?

And would you whisper to them,
what a beautiful wonder it is,
to simply
exist.